CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mackenzie allowed Sheriff Tate to ride along with her as they went to the address of Lawrence King. King was the twenty-something they had mentioned as being something of the town’s resident arsonist. On the way to King’s mobile home, Tate did his best to describe the suspect without being too derogatory.
“He’s not mentally disabled or anything,” Tate explained. “But he’s just…slow. I don’t know how else to explain it. You talk to him and he’s just not all there.”
Mackenzie nodded because she had seen the type before. Usually people who lived with a bent toward the destruction of only small things (rather than the kinds of massive destruction that came to mind when thinking of terrorists), had a vacant look in their eyes. They spoke like they were calculating each word
